In Memory, We Survive
by Erena G.T. Rose
Summary: A collection of drabbles. Vignettes and memories; pieces of their souls. It's all down in the subtext and the things left unsaid. Not as depressing as the title. Multiple characters; no real pairings. Semi-canon.
1. Danny

**Drabble #001**:

Danny

* * *

_Danny._

Every thought of him was like a burning brand on her soul, a razor fraying the ties that held her down to this damned earth. It ached liked nothing else could. She lost Danny.

Danny...gone.

And then, back. Whatever god or devil created the Witchblade must have liked tricks and tragedies, because she was seeing him again. Danny. His face. Hearing his voice. Seeing his smile. She was broken and he was gone, but somehow, he was there to piece her back together when she was shaking apart.

A ghost. A hallucination. She didn't know which he really was and what parts of this whole insanity she was making up, but if her gave her back Danny, even for the briefest of moments...

...even if it meant she was going quietly but certifiably insane...

...than she'd keep the damn Witchblade on for the rest of her life.

* * *

She's like a candle glowing in the darkness. He can see her in the shadowy corners of this world he's living in now. Heaven, Hell? Something in between maybe, but he's unconcerned by it. Right now, she's his focus--his goal. She's floundering in her circumstances and sinking beneath the surface of what she thinks is an unsurpassable sea of sorrow.

He wants to make it up to her--and he tries. He's there for her, every moment of every day. All she has to do is reach for him, call to him--think of him. He appointed himself her guardian angel, watching over her from the sidelines and trying to make her understand that death doesn't mean "end" as much as "new beginnings". He had to die for her to realize her full potential. He understands it, even if she doesn't. She's so much stronger than she knows; she's been made even more so under trial by fire.

And loss.

But though he understands it, he doesn't let it go. So he makes the travel between planes, to be by her side at the slightest notice. He's a shift in the wind and the flick of the curtains by her beside; he's sitting on the staircase in her spartan apartment and watching her sleep.

It's the least he can do, for leaving her alone. Saving each others lives more times than they could count; more cups of coffee than anyone could ever drink. In the end, it still didn't mean much. He still owes her.

But that's not why he's doing this.

They're partners.

Not even death is going to keep him from watching her back.

* * *


	2. Fire

**Drabble #002**:

Fire

* * *

The power of the Witchblade never ceased to amaze him. Across a city, across time and distance--it called out to him through the bond that burned and was never broken.

Twin circles of fire burned behind his eyes, dark and light against a grey-silver curtain. He couldn't pull the partition aside, but through it, he could feel the waves of warmth and the sounds of frenzied passion. The thrill of adrenaline rushed in his system, kissing him with the blood-lust excitement of a battle fought on vengeance and righteous cause. His smile was cold but his body went up in flames.

In his mind, he can see her. Against an enemy thrice-evil in her eyes, she holds her own, the Witchblade her only weapon and single-defense. She's the true wielder, he's known it from the start; the hungry ardor with which she accepted her destiny brought him to a fever pitch.

He stood before the window, eyes staring blanking out the window, but his mind somewhere else completely. He's standing in front of that blocking curtain, feeling what she feels and knowing what she knows. If he could make it through, he could pull her into himself and be _in_ her, where they would be one.

It's a form of possession he _aches_ to make reality.

She falters momentarily and he slams his palm against the too-solid form of the partition, quaking with the knowledge that she was shaking. He can _feel_ it. In her mind is doubt and hurt--and he wants to reach out and wrap his hands around her neck, to feel the tightening there. She's on the verge of tears, frightened and abandoned by her power. Alone. Lonely.

Vulnerable.

Ian was right. It's a quality that makes her all the more enticing to one such as himself.

There's another type of rush in his body, one that leaves him gasping. Sarah was so willful, so strong; her femininity was only enhanced by the Witchblade and it was so damned tempting to him. Through the bond he has, he knows her inside and out--wants to destroy her for her power and consume her for her beauty. She's something at once repugnant and desirable.

And it is his desire that consumes him now. It's the quaking in his limbs, the muscles shaking with strain; his skin is slicked with sweat, making his silk shirt cling to him beneath his suit and jacket. The tie around his neck is a little too tight--erotic--and the air in the room seems suddenly much hotter than he knows it to be.

She rises again, a vengeful angel and he knows she's got her will back. For the first time, she uses the Witchblade as it's meant to be used--and the gates throw themselves open in his mind. The curtain is swept aside and she's suddenly there before him, radiating fire and heaven-light. Her hair billows as she stalks across the plane of the battlefield to her victim--her adversary--and fancies that, even dressed as a high-handled whore, she's regal in her fury.

The waves of heat under his skin flare and rush all across his body, scorching him. Her frenzy is marvelous to behold, and indescribable despite its magnitude. The sensations gathered, tingling and consuming; he stretches out his hand, cool air warming against his palm as he reaches into the flames to _touch_ her. Just once, just once.

She strikes down the simpering fool who would dare to stand against her and the thrill of the Witchblade sings through his veins like a drug. Climax sweeps through him, making him weak in the knees and destroying any semblance of control he retained over his own body. Leave it to the Woman's Weapon to dominate _him_.

Still, he cannot allow himself to pull away or to sink down into oblivion. He maintains his concentration, standing in the doorway of the partition, watching her. She stands over her conquered foe and he wishes she would kill him, so he can revel in the sated bloodlust of the blade. Voices swirl in her mind--and his--ghost of old pasts calling up to her. Vengeance. Peace. Hatred. Love. He images that she must be confused.

And here is the truth of it. She will either choose one path or the other. One marked by blood, in which she would bond with the Witchblade in darkness--or the other path, lesser in his eyes, by which she would court its favor with _good_. He cannot abide that she choose the lesser.

He likes her fierce, this Wielder. There's something in her eyes--in _her_--that makes him ache with need; she's a preoccupation. An addiction; an appetite he cannot satisfy--a mania which consumed him and held a certain fascination that he might be willing to call _obsession_.

But she chooses and the Blade recedes into passivity; the sensations are gone from his body at once and the curtain falls back into place as if it were made of diamonds-and-steel rather than the gossamer threads of a dream-world. His breath rushes out of his lungs on an exhale he hadn't realized he was holding in.

His heart is beating too fast for his liking.

His palm slides away from where he had it pressed against the glass over the window, the view of the city obscured by the foggy print left there. His next breath adds to the obscurity there, frosting the glass with his exasperation.

His thwarted pleasure.

His lip curls in disgust--in a grimace that speaks of betrayal. "You disappoint me, Sara." The ebb is pulling at him--exhaustion. To "see" with the Witchblade was something natural and at once, not. It was not meant for men and so it taxed on him. But like his fascination with this woman, there was no way he could draw back from it.

It was a bond. A connection, for better or worse.

He turned his back into the curve of the window seat and took the liberty of gathering his breath. He couldn't breath very well; he was dizzy.

Winded by the night's visions, he glanced down at the intertwined circles on the back of his hand--the hand that linked him to Sara and the Witchblade. He wants to smile at the symbol, but he cannot.

The smallest ember of her passion is what he feels through the bond now; beside the all-consuming fire of this past hour, which engulfed him in its entirety to destroy his self-control...

...beside that, this dim flame left him feeling weak, empty and unfulfilled.

* * *


	3. Intersection

**Drabble #003**

Intersection

* * *

The Black Dragons don't need the cover of darkness in which to work; they move unnoticed and unheeded by the common people in broad daylight and under pressure. They were trained for this, were they not?

Ian's eyes are focused on the slim outline he can make out of his old friend--now, his foe--hiding just at the side of the Vorschlag building. Hector's always been very good at blending in, his hobby as it were; but Ian's always been better and this isn't a game anymore. They aren't children playing at being soldiers. They're independent warriors, fighting a war.

He sees Hector move away, walking briskly--but not quick enough to draw attention--down the sidewalk and after Sara--or so it would seem. From behind the large V of the Vorshclag, he blinked, watching with careful eyes.

When he knew Hector wasn't watching, he slipped away to tail after him from afar. While his adversary only hobbied at stealth, it was Ian's _specialty_.

* * *

It's a strange thing, Danny thinks, this business of being dead. He's not and he is, depending on the person who's asking. To the tall, imposing man with the nearly pitch-ebony skin, he's most assuredly dead--even if they've never heard of each other--and so, there's no chance Danny will be seen.

To Sara, who rode of with her bike, he's something in-between and so she feels him--but doesn't see him standing just on the other side of the pyramid, watching her. _Always_ watching her. It's his form of protection; his devotion to his partner.

And to Ian Nottingham, with whom Danny was becoming increasingly familiar--and almost comfortable--with, it wasn't even a question.

* * *

Ian caught his gaze in the reflection of the high-shine glass as he walked by, a nod the only sign of his acknowledgment.

* * *

They're all here for the same reason. Watching.

Watching _her_.

It's a strange cross-road in time and one of those rare, absurd moments where Danny smiles at the sheer absurdity of it.

* * *


	4. Brothers

As artists, life was more about aesthetics for them than rules. People like themselves stood above such paltry things, conceived by lesser men and enforced by peons. They made their own way, their own world.

Brothers, through thick and thin with no one but each other for support.

Lying in bed together, the three clothed similarly in naught but their drawstrings pants and covered in paint splotches, they could have been one image shattered into three. But they were smiling at each other, hands joined between them.

"That one's a masterpiece, Isaac," whispered Presley, the youngest. His face was split in a wide grin, a swath of green paint bisecting his cheekbone. "Are you going to give that one to the Badlands?"

"You better not," snorted Thorpe, his eyes half-closed in sleep. His hands were covered in grey-black pigments from the mad frenzy of actual hand-smudged oils they'd done earlier. He was lying on the other side of Isaac, his cheek pillowed against his brother's shoulder.

Isaac smiled contentedly, his own hands covered in a mixture of crimson, ruby, scarlet and garnet. It's left over from his own piece of the painting this evening, the smeared blood that dashed across the canvas. His fingers tingled pleasantly with work well done, even as the paint dried on his skin.

"Hmm, I haven't decided." He nudged Presley in the side, not wanting to exclude him. "Perhaps," he half-whispers, "We'll ask big brother what he wants us to do with it."

"Yes," answered Thorpe, "Let's give it to him as a present. You know how he likes modern art. Much better than the classic modes. And this," he trailed off for a moment, "_This_ is much more to his taste, I think."

"That's because we were thinking of him again." Presley smiled. "I miss him when he goes away."

"You know he has to, Pres. Don't get emotional." Isaac patted his hand fondly. "Ah well, a present it is then. To big brother."

"To big brother," the other two echoed.

Somewhere out in the darkness, another fragment of this thrice-shattered image was stalking his prey. Eyes mismatched and beautiful; words on his lips.

_"Everyone has a fantasy."_


	5. Cathain

**Drabble #005:**

Cathain

* * *

The tears blurred his vision and it's all he can do to hang on to the flimsy wooden railing of this scaffolding. Below him, she stands with her arms outspread, hair free and eyes fierce. The gauntlet is prominent on her arm as she proclaims her status as a demi-goddess.

He's never seen anything more beautiful in all his days previous to this one. She is Sara and she is Cathain, all in one. She's so many beautiful, incomparable women all in one body--and she's his to guard, to protect.

The role entrusted to him is both a blessing and a curse. He yearns for more than this, but she's not ready--may _never_ be ready--and that's something he cannot risk. Mr. Irons would be most displeased with him, should he overstep his bounds as protector.

But...

She commands the foolish, misguided Druid to lay down his weapon and the man does so. Ian has already seen the gunman in the shadows, but he's not going to move, going to interfere. That is for Sara--beautiful, strong Sara--to deal with.

The shot rings out and the Druid is down. Immediately, she's in action, freeing the virgin sacrifice and taking cover, the gauntlet in activation and its eye swirling with mysticism and mystery. Almost as if she senses he's there, she glances up quickly and their gazes meet.

The tears are in his eyes and he's ashamed that she might perceive this as weakness--but that's what it is. She's so beautiful as this goddess Cathain, the warrior queen. He wants to go down on his knees and pledge his fealty to her, but...

...she moves away, searching for the shooter and he knows he must go now or risk becoming entangled with this newest event. The shadows conceal him as he slips away.

In the darkness, he imagines Cathain to be doing as is her godly right and administering justice to the ones of fallen virtue.


	6. Follow Up

**Drabble #006:**

Follow-Up

* * *

Gabriel's back hit the wall, though he wasn't pushed. Ian didn't _have_ to push. He just advanced in that scary, intimidating way and Gabriel felt himself quake. The wall seemed as good a support as any.

And, because he could no longer get to the back of him, it meant Ian would have to quit_ circling_ him, like a fucking hawk.

But Ian's eyes are dark and bore into him. The temperature in the room is frigid--even more so since _he_ came in--but Gabriel's hot under his skin and sweating. It's an uncomfortable situation. His shirt's half unbutton, his pants undone. He's wearing his socks and no shoes--he wasn't expecting to be ambushed as he changed for bed.

Bed. It's just there, to his right.

Correction; his right and Nottingham's _left._ Ian's suddenly right in front of him, hands planted against the wall beside Gabriel's head. His lips part and a single breath puffs out, to touch Gabriel's.

The younger man trembles.

"What part of do _not_ discuss the Witchblade with Sara Pezzini did you miss, Mr. Bowman?"

Oh, god, the man's intimidating--but no, he couldn't let that go. He tried to muster up some courage in the face of this dark, handsome man. He grasps at the first excuse that comes to mind.

"I pick my own friends."

He gave the excuse to Sara too, didn't he? He didn't know why the hell he was doing this, only that if felt like the bottom dropping out of his stomach. Each and every time he talked to this man.

"And what kind of friends are you interested in making, Mr. Bowman?"

Oh, the way he says his name is sinful. It's disturbing too. Disturbing as _hell_. Gabriel knows he should be afraid, horribly afraid. He should be shaking in his boots.

Not shaking in his half-unbottoned Levi's and wishing this man would pull them all the way down.

_Gulp_.

"The platonic, non-evil, on-the-side-of-good-and-not-killing-me kind." He stutters at the end, because Ian suddenly presses in too close. Gabriel can feel the tips of their noses touching. He tries to get a deep breath and fails, the air whispering out between his lips hopelessly.

There's a twist to Ian's lips that might be amusement--or something else--and then he's gone, suddenly across the room and half-way out the door.

As he goes, he calls out, "It is good that you make friends, Gabriel. Be sure to keep them close to you."

And then the door slams and there's nothing. No threat. No man in black.

No Ian Nottingham looming over him as he's half-dressed in his bedroom, just a foot or two from his bed.

From temptation.

He throws himself across the cool sheets and wonders, tiredly, what he's gone and gotten himself into _this_ time.


	7. Partnership

**Drabble #007:**

Partnership

* * *

Her partnership with Jake is nothing like the one she had with Danny. It's in those first few days the differences are most glaringly apparent to her.

Danny was always wise-craking, but supportive; Jake flirted his way through conversations and did as he was told.

There were no secrets between Danny and herself--no _real_ ones, anyway. She knew all the troubles that plagued his marriage, his career; he knew her sore spots, about her father and her relationship with Maria.

Jake knew only what he'd heard in the squad room and what he could dig up in the personnel files. He asked questions that made her angry and posed theories that pissed her off.

And while she and Danny always checked in with each other, making sure to keep in touch, she and Jake could go for twelve or fifteen hours at a time without word.

It was obvious that Jake was never going to be Danny. The messy desk and the nice apartment; the sunshine smile and the too-blunt offers.

Not like Danny with his organized clutter and dingy, love-filled apartment; his crooked, secret smile and the innuendos that never became more.

No, Jake would never replace Danny. One cannot become what one was never meant to be on one's own. It sounded so much like one of Danny's fortune-cookie proverbs that Sara felt tears burn behind her eyes.

Above all those things, though, it was the early morning banter and their shared cup of life-saving coffee that she missed most.

And his smile when he said, "You need it more than I do."


	8. Platonic

**Drabble #008:**

Platonic

* * *

Dante likes the looks of the kid, likes his groove. For a rookie with a shit-ass trainer, Jake McCartey wasn't too bad on the job...and certainly not too hard on the eyes.

What could he say? He always had a thing for blondes.

The kid's face is open, no matter how many lies he's telling--like a book. His eyes are stained-glass windows to his soul and Dante can see through them like their crystal clear. His lips quirk at the corners whether he's happy, frustrated or just straight up aggravated.

Staying cool. It's a trait to be admired. Fostered.

So if he wanders too often into the detective's office when his bombshell-bitch-barbie partner wasn't there, then it was all the less suspicious, right? He's a concerned captain, looking out for his rookies.

If his hand lingers overlong on Jake's shoulder in some reprimand--or greeting--it's supposed to go unnoticed, because who's ever going to think that the hard-ass Dante has something for the surfer brat from Cali?

If his eyes glitter suspiciously when he invites the detective to take drinks with him after work, it's only friendship, right?

_"See me when you get off your shift. Come thirsty."_

Jake's not like the others--like the jaded dicks he deals with everyday or the real idealistic rookies. He's a good kid, a good cop--and _still_, somehow, by the grace of God, alive on the job.

So if Dante takes in interest in the kid, it's almost sorta platonic...

...if ya don't look too close.


	9. Snow

**Drabble #009:**

Snow

* * *

Walking in the snow is a familiar habit--something that's a by-product of living all her years in New York city and its particular weather. It was always the same, wasn't it? A winter in New York.

For so many years, it was walking with her Dad, her small hand held in his because the snow was just too deep and she was still too little to plow through the bigger drifts by herself. They laughed about it in those days, talking in cheerful voices of the days when she'd be as tall as mountain.

After her father died, it was Joe and her, two sorrowful figures in the blinding white. She remembered crying tears that froze on her cheeks and aching for some nameless closure. Joe patted her on the shoulder and held her in his arms, but he wasn't her father and could only substitute so much.

Being in the snow with Danny was a liberating experience. He always had stories to tell that made her laugh and laughter kept them warm. They told jokes about cops they worked with and detectives they hated--until they became detectives themselves, and then it was about how they needed a vacation. A long, good vacation.

Then Danny's gone and it's Jake, blonde and California-made. He's too pretty and too young; overzealous and idealistic. He walks Sara to her car and walks her to the front door of her building. He asks her if she wants to go to dinner, then asks if she wants to go ice-skating. It seems he can't _wait_ to get her out in the snow. She tells him that it's "just this once" and gives in. She enjoys it more than she expected to, but not quite as much as she wanted to.

And, finally, in the darkness of a cold winter night, when she's breaking rules she made for herself, there's Ian. He's just as cold as the snow but nowhere near as pure; against the stark white, he's a black shadow moving beside her. They stroll quietly, neither saying a word for a long while.

Sara makes no mention of the blood he washed from the leather of his gloves or the twin pistols and dagger-set concealed so well beneath his trench coat.

He makes no mention of the image of dead-man trailing just a step or two behind them, his soulful gaze calculating.

So maybe the winters in New York always stay the same.

But the person she chose to share it with made all the difference.


	10. Frustration

**Drabble #010:**

Frustration

* * *

Fury sweeps through him and even in this half-life, half-death state he's existing in, he's doing his damn-best to keep his cool. But damn Sara and damn her hard-headedness. She's not listening to him.

He tries to remember if it was this frustrating when he was alive.

In the nothing-someplace location he's currently in, he takes a seat on what could be the ground...or the ceiling. He stares into the nothingness and sees visions of things there, moving, turning...changing.

A sigh escapes him.

_"Damn it, Pez."_

* * *

He returns to see her later that evening--finds her playing hard on a drum-set he knew was a gift from that kid. He applauds her energy and smiles--because it's so much like his old ordinary Sara that he's delighted.

But that's not why he's here.

He watches her talk to the spirit of the priest and keeps his arms cross tightly over his chest. She's confused and worried--suspicious of the Witchblade's involvement in the man's death. He understands.

He wants to hold her.

He refrains.

He feels bad for this, for bringing this man to see her--but she asked for it and even in death, he did what he could for his partner. When the time ends and he has to go back, he goes with the priest and then goes back to his own place, where he waits.

He feels a sort of sorrow in his chest.

It's disembodied.

* * *

Another day, another crisis. They took the man she's come to care for and like the truest definition of the legendary warrior-women, she's a force to be feared. She rages through back alleys and low-life hell-holes until she questions every source--the nasty way. She breaks noses and bones and causes a general uproar...

...Danny wonders if she's noticed that she's been perpetually on the verge of tears all day.

He tries to warn her, tries to tell her--you can't fight the devil using the devil's tools. But she's in a panic and when Pez panicked, the first reaction was "fight". She was tired, exhausted, frightened and most of all, distraught. She needed back up on this, but Jake sure as well wasn't the guy for the job.

If he were alive, he'd have back her up; but he's dead and she's content to yell at him and prove that he's nothing more than a spirit before her eyes. Her words...her hurt, bring tears to burn behind his eyes...

...he was sure when he died that he would stop feeling pain this way.

_"I can walk through you,"_ she said.

Yea, it was true.

But he could _see_ through her and he knows that at the core, where she's most vulnerable, she's scared shitless.


	11. Wanderer

**Drabble #011:**

Wanderer

* * *

"Oh, come on, Eddie! I just wan'te play!" Little John Dougherty , only 15, chased after his older brother, just on the heels of the lads and their girls. "Can't ya go out sum'utter time?"

Edward paused in his walk, while the rest of the boys and their lasses continued on. He gave Johnny a conspiratorial wink, "Now, now, Johnny--don't I play with you e'nuff, then? Or have ya forgotten what a good big brother I am to you?" He reached out and tapped the center of John's forehead with his fingertips. "Now, be a good younglin' and head back home; it'll be dark soon."

John was miffed. "But Eddie!" He pouted his bottom lip, which only made Edward laugh. He stamped his foot in the ground, stirring up the dust.

"Now look here, John--don't be a sore lad about this; I've got to look after some things just for me'own sake, then I'll be back home. I'm gonna take Bobby and da'boys with me, 'kay? Be back in no time."

Sniffle. "Will you be back early enough to..." he glanced over his brother's shoulders, but the other teenagers were far away. He smiled at his brother with trembling lips. "Will you come back in time to tuck me in?" It was their own secret little code, one that made them both smile.

"Aye, I will." Edward smiled widely, his grin charming and infectious. John was happy to see it--pleased to be on the receiving end--that he actually sighed, sighed like a love-struck little girl. Hastily he tried to cover the sound with a cough--but Edward's laugh told him he wasn't successful.

"Get along, Johnny-boy--I'll be back later." He patted the younger boy on the head and turned away. "I'm sorry, Johnny."

"That's okay," the boy called after him. "Just come see me when ya return, 'kay?"

Edward waved over his shoulder, affirming.

"I love you, Eddie," John whispered to no one in particular--maybe to the wandering wind.

And maybe that was appropriate.

* * *

Edward never did come home that night. He set off to "look after some things" and never returned. He was alive--Johnny knew that--but he never came back to _him_ and that was almost the same as being gone.

Gone, like the whispering winds.

John sang songs from the edge of his balcony each evening, hoping that wherever he might be, the words would find his brother and call him back.


End file.
